I met 23-year-old Davey—that’s her road name, the one she uses while hitching rides and traversing the country in an SVO-converted truck—on the sidewalk in Williamsburg, where she was selling her industrial wood nymph jewelry while a friend quietly played banjo. It was very clear there was some kind of object-story synthesis, so I asked about it. After chatting with her for two minutes I could tell the explanation was going to take a while and be worth it, so she invited me over for a chat in the Brooklyn studio where she’d been making her jewelry, writing her stories, and living with nine boys.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The building is an old textile factory, and much of the original charm is still functioning and intact. The doorbell made it obvious special things were ahead. 


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